The Second Son
by Deathbistereo95
Summary: He was never his mother's favorite. He'd always been invisible in the ways that mattered, but maybe there was at least one person that could say that they were proud to have him as a son.


Regulus's hand shook as he brought the cup up to his mouth. This isn't how he imagined it. A small, twisted part deep inside of him had always thought it would be his brother. Some sort of universal irony or something poetic along those lines.

He paused as the cup was just about to touch his lips. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. What would his mother think? Would she cry? Would she scream?

At least Kreacher would miss him. Right?

Ever since he was a small child he'd known. Not necessarily that his life would come to a close at the tender age of 19. No, he'd known he was expendable. His mother had made that abundantly clear with all focus she'd given Sirius, whether it was praising him or threatening to disown him.

He'd always gotten on better with his father. It wasn't like they had the typical father-son relationship that his friends at school had talked about having with their own fathers, but it was nice in its own way. They had quiet moments in the study when his mother went on a rampage, or when his brother started another fight. They'd both sort of slink away, knowing they wouldn't be missed.

"Why does Sirius do it?" he'd asked his father one night during the summer. He must have been about fourteen, his arithmancy book open-faced in his lap.

His father, sitting behind his desk and with spectacles sitting on the end of his nose, had stopped whatever it was that he'd been writing, placing the quill down softly on the desk. Regulus had never been so thankful for silencing charms, knowing full well that a floor below them his mother and brother were tearing into each other.

His father had taken his glasses off next, setting them by his quill. He rubbed at his cleanshaven jawline and sighed.

"He's too much his mother's son," was the only answer he'd gotten. One that had left him feeling sort of hollow inside.

His mother never raised her voice with him, never pushed him. He had always thought that it was because he'd been the dutiful son, the quiet son. Even in his defiance and with their mother's complete animosity, Sirius had and would always remain the favorite. Though, perhaps, not their father's

The thought always gave him a small comfort. Until his father's funeral.

He'd been 18. His mother had worn a mourning veil, though he was sure she never shed a tear. His dress robes had been the customary black, fitted at Madam Malkin's two days before.

His brother hadn't come.

"You're weak," Sirius had hissed in the corridor outside of the Slytherin dungeons. "Always doing what you're told. You're soft. No mind of your own."

He'd been 16 and the tattoo on his left arm burned like a brand. He'd allowed himself to be branded like cattle. Sirius didn't know. He probably suspected since he'd been blasted off the family tree over the summer, but Regulus wasn't going to confirm it for him.

His brother didn't need any more ammunition to throw vitriol and spite in his general direction.

Regulus had wanted to tell his brother then. It wasn't that he really wanted any of this. He just wanted even half the love that had been given to Sirius. He wanted to be more than the spare. Even with his brother disowned that's still what he was.

They were the heir and spare.

Instead he'd told him, "I'm not the weak one. You allowed yourself to be manipulated by blood-traitors and mudbloods! You turned your back on your family. I can't bear to even look at you."

Very little was spoken after that. Though he did end up in detention a few times after some nasty hexes were thrown between his friends and his brother's.

Fucking James Potter. What was so special about him? He wore tacky glasses and associated with the worst sort. The worst part though, was watching his brother hero-worship the ground he walked on.

He never told him, but Regulus loved his brother. He loved his father and even his mother.

"You are so like your father," she told him, straightening his tie. He'd smiled. Those were probably the kindest words she'd ever spoken to him. Not that any other words had been meant to be painful, but it was the one statement he was proud of.

There was nothing wrong with being Orion Black's son. At least he hadn't been hers. Not really.

After his father died Regulus became even more determined to make him proud. Unfortunately, he'd gone about it the wrong way, becoming more involved in the war. Following his cousin's example, though not closely. No one could have been as devoted to the cause as Bellatrix.

He tried not to be left alone with her. That didn't work so well when everyone knew they were related.

"Black!" Lucius hissed one night after a particular raid of muggle neighborhood. The blonde wizard marched up to him, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a secluded corner in Lestrange Manor.

"What?" he'd snarled, ripping his arm out of Lucius's grasp.

"You need to get control over your cousin! Her zealousness for this is getting out of control!"

Regulus gritted his teeth as an image of a little blonde girl came to the forefront of his mind. Bellatrix's mad cackling filled his ears and he then saw splatters of red.

"What's the matter, _cousin_? Don't have the _stomach_ for the things that need to be done?"

That was the last raid he'd ever gone on. He'd had nightmares for weeks.

What beliefs could demand so much blood? This wasn't what he'd signed up for.

For months leading up to this moment, the moment with the cup perched against his chapped lips, Regulus had obsessed. Family records, newspaper clippings, pages torn out of books from the family library. He'd dedicated an entire wall to his findings. His mother had stopped knocking on his door after two months.

"Kreacher." He had the elf pay close attention. This was vital. If his hunch was right then his elf friend would finally give him the evidence he needed to confirm his rather unsettling hunch.

"The Dark Lord is in need of an elf. Listen closely, no matter what happens you need to come back to me. Whatever happens, you need to come back."

Kreacher had almost sobbed when Regulus had ordered him to take him back to the cave.

 _To the Dark Lord -_

The was his duty. To his father. To his brother. To himself. This time he was going to do the right thing.

 _I know I will be long dead before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret._

Regulus swallowed hard, taking in the whole contents of the cup. Pain. Flashes of despair.

He fell to his knees. "I can't, Kreacher. No more."

"Kreacher is sorry, Master," the elf apologized. "But Master says that I must."

The elf forced the cup back to his lips, made him choke it down.

 _I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can._

At some point, he started sobbing. This was too much, especially for him. Maybe Sirius could have done it.

He needed water.

"Just one more, Master," the elf promised.

 _I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more._

"No more, Master. No more."

Regulus wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Grab the locket, Kreacher."

He slowly made his way to edge of the water, trying to focus on what needed to be done as well as the overwhelming need for a drink of water. It was as if he'd been left in a desert for months and he could really only think of one thing.

"Kreacher has the locket, Master," the elf announced. "What do you wish for Kreacher to do with it?"

Cold, slimy hands grabbed at him before he could even swallow his first sip. Shock and fear gripped his heart as he was dragged forward.

"Master Regulus!" Kreacher screeched and he felt the elf's small hand try to grip his own.

"No!" he shouted, pushing up above the water line with a desperate kick. "Kreacher, destroy it! Destroy the locket! Get out!"

Beneath the surface was black and crushing. White limps were luminescent among the inky backdrop. They were ripping and tearing. Fire filled his lungs.

Macabre smiles were the only thing he remembered seeing before it went dark.

 _R.A.B._


End file.
